


Giant Moth/OC

by nsfwlamb



Category: Original Work
Genre: Biting, Blood, F/F, Human/Monster Romance, Monsters, Oviposition, Pain, Rain, Teratophilia, giant bug, giant insect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-24 01:01:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16170386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nsfwlamb/pseuds/nsfwlamb
Summary: She began to recall the feral cats of her childhood. Whisper retrieved a few slices of cantaloupe from her fridge, placed them into a bowl, and returned to the shed door with flashlight in hand. In a tediously slow act, she carefully grasped the handle, pulled it open just enough for the bowl, then placed the gift directly inside. Door closed, she went back to her cozy little house.Feral cats, she remembered, could have their trust gained with the process of slow conditioning. Whisper had no doubt that the strange moth had returned. If it ate, perhaps it ate fruit? She was scared, but didn't feel like she was in any danger. It was just a bug. A giant bipedal bug. With gnashing mouth parts. And, even if there was some sort of danger, it was injured and she was strong.





	Giant Moth/OC

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy all. Another nsfw monster story. Check out my Tumblr, where I'm most active and have even more content! http://nsfwgenuflect.tumblr.com/

Evening crickets sang away in the sunset. Dim, pulsing stars faded into the darkness of the upper sky. And Whisper, using the lowered temperature to get some gardening done, was short one crucial tool. She looked down at the pretty blue flowers resting in their biodegradable pots and dusted off her gloves. This would be easier with a trowel. 

The twenty-three year old peeled off the leather from her hands and went around the house towards her storage shed. Her long, light brown pony tail bobbed as she strode with purpose, and her tattered denim short-shorts rubbed roughly together at the thighs. 

She creaked open the rotting shed door from which dust and shadow poured out into the evening. Flecks floated across the seams of sunset. Inside the shed her eyes adjusted, and she squinted up at the feathery sound of wings. For a second there was nothing, but then, screeching in a panic, a barn owl swooped down from the rafters. Its wings hammered against the walls, missing the broken window by a few inches before successfully making it through. Feathers went askew and settled onto the boards below.

Whisper breathed out softly. Just a bird. She bent down a moment to collect one of the speckled feathers before searching for a trowel. The feather was placed on top of a worn table as her eyes grazed the scene. One day she ought to tidy the little shed up, as she was already having trouble finding her tools. 

She began to plot out the rest of her night as she searched. Ultimately, she decided that after a bit of much needed garden time, Whisper would get some actual work done at her computer. Working from home wasn't just fun and games. She had to support herself and pay for her house after all, as the tiny inheritance from her grandmother surely wasn't what kept her afloat. So; find the trowel, plant the flowers, work at computer. That would wrap up the night nicely.

She peeked around a pile of crumpled, damp boxes. Nothing. She ducked under the high, wide desk. Just junk. She eyed the hooks dangling from their holes. They sported an array of goodies but lacked the tool she needed. 

Whisper sighed. She turned and zoned out a bit, thinking. Coming out of her short stupor, she noticed a sliver of thin green fabric across the boards, the rest hidden from view. It fluttered every so gently with what Whisper assumed had been a draft. She didn't recall storing old blankets or clothes in the shed.

“Hm,” she hummed curiously.

Without any reserve Whisper bent and grasped the tattered sliver and began to pull, and in a split second response the fabric pulled back. She'd been found! 

A pile of junk clattered and fell, forcing a cry from a surprised and trapped Whisper. In a blur, something climbed away sending thick layers of dust everywhere. Whatever it was crossed the pile then clambered in a blind panic towards the open door.

Whisper kicked off all the junk and slipped backwards on her bottom, eyes wide and following the rapid abscond. What the fuck! Now THAT was not a bird! Had a rabid coyote taken residence in her humble little shed?

In no time she was scrambling to her feet and giving chase; no- not a dog- was that a human? Had there been some creep in her shed? But something about the figure had been wrong. She shuttered, horror chilling her blood. 

Outside, Whisper saw nothing. No sign of the person- the creature- whatever it had been. She breathed heavily and shook. The thought to rip her phone from her pocket and dial the police crossed her mind.

The sound of urgent rustling and fearful clicking drifted to her ears. She looked this way and that, and determined it to be coming from the treeline near her house. Legs brought her forward on their own. She picked up a fallen branch on the way. 

Then, there it was. She stood stunned, eyes glued to the scene and knees threatening to give out. A sort of giant insect was thrashing in terror and pain in the blackberry patch near the wood entrance. Its body and wings were ripping against the curved thorns in an attempt to escape. Even with such an expressionless mug, Whisper could sense the fear in the bug's eyes and the urgency in the clicking of its strange mouth.

Two words flashed across her mind. It's helpless. 

Rearing her stick back she tread carefully forward, inspecting the situation. 

It froze, panting desperately. Then, after but a moment of rest, it struggled again with all its might. 

Whisper could see a hole tearing into the middle of a wing. She stopped again and stared, blood rushing to her head and cheeks. Among the shock, she was trying to think. How to get it out? What happened if it bit her and off popped her fingers? 

Just then the insect realized it was being watched and yanked this way and that, before chittering in pain and ceasing to struggle for a second time. This time, it had given up. At least for a little while.

Whisper moved slowly closer, and closer, and closer. She met eyes with the insect and tried to look as non-threatening as she could. The stick even met the dirt gently. Unarmed, and moving with generous, open aired stillness, Whisper set about to releasing the creature.

It leaned away, huffing heavily with exhaustion and fear. Whisper persisted with the courage of a farmer releasing a coyote from a barbed wire fence. Her pupils shifted up for a wary glance, then back down to her nimble hands as she carefully pinched the bridge of a wing between fingers. The bug shuttered, wing quivering under touch.

“It's alright,” she whispered gently. “I just want to help,”

With her other hand she steadily peeled back a branch of bramble prickling at the wing. Below, more thorns stabbed at the thin mesh, but with a quick flutter the one free wing saluted generally out of harm's way. 

Whisper freed the secondary wing, which pressed up against the first. Then, she circled around with the insect's head following her the whole way, and picked at the other wings. Once more the wing shuttered against her fingers, though this time Whisper noted that the shake traveled upwards into the bug's one good antenna. One good antenna- she noted- yes, the other was broken a quarter of the way up. Her heart sank with sympathy.

And soon it was free. She bumbled backwards as the moth painstakingly let its body take the blunt of the thorns, wings tiredly at attention. It stumbled on through the rest of the bush to alleviate itself, before skittering away into the forest as if set aflame. It didn't even look back. Whisper watched the pale green fade away into the thicket. 

She stood there a while longer before wandering back to the house in a haze. There was mist over her mind, clouding her inner thoughts. She nearly ran into the door. Whisper found herself slumped into the welcoming embrace of a loveseat, head in hand, and brain trickling with unanswered questions.

The facts: it was a giant bug, it was probably a moth, it specificity resembled a luna moth, it was scared of her, it did not attack her, it was severely injured, and it had been living in her shed.

Whisper drummed her fingers on her chin.

The questions: where did it come from, how had it been injured, why was it so big, why did it not bite her, how could it walk, and was it even supposed to have a mouth?

By the time she had regained some of her wits, the sun had sank deep into the earth. She went outside to shut the shed, and then decided to sleep. Sleep decided it didn't care. She tossed and turned in her king sized bed. The lulling crickets did nothing to sooth her whirring gears, so at around midnight she got back up to try and read.

What better literature to read on a night like this than literature on alien abductions? She'd read the book a hundred times over, and yet read it some more. The low light of her lamp brightened the red of her closed curtains and yellowed the pages of her book. It was about when she'd gotten to a section on lost time when she heard the distant creeeak-clank-clank of her shed door opening and shuttering closed.

Her blood began to grow cold, as if twisting right the hot-water valve of a bath to run cool. A peek towards the grandfather clock told her it was one in the morning now. She sat her book down and looked out of the curtains, but it was too dark to see. 

She began to recall the feral cats of her childhood. Whisper retrieved a few slices of cantaloupe from her fridge, placed them into a bowl, and returned to the shed door with flashlight in hand. In a tediously slow act, she carefully grasped the handle, pulled it open just enough for the bowl, then placed the gift directly inside. Door closed, she went back to her cozy little house.

Feral cats, she remembered, could have their trust gained with the process of slow conditioning. Whisper had no doubt that the strange moth had returned. If it ate, perhaps it ate fruit? She was scared, but didn't feel like she was in any danger. It was just a bug. A giant bipedal bug. With gnashing mouth parts. And, even if there was some sort of danger, it was injured and she was strong.

After setting out the bowl sleep found Whisper and complied to her will. She drifted off into dreams, and awoke far too early. The book was where she left it on her bedside table, and her curtains were partially pulled back from the night before.

She went outside before the shed door and hesitated. When she eventually got her courage back she peered inside, down at the bowl. Empty. A stupid smile sprawled over her face against her will. Whisper was delighted. If the insect had any notion of finding a different shelter before, now it certainly did not. Feed a feral cat, and it would never leave.

Soon she was filling the bowl with strawberries, canned peaches, and mixed fruit cups. This time she'd enter the building. Inside there was no sign of the moth, but she knew it had to be there, hiding. 

“I brought you more food,” she explained quietly. 

Whisper left the bowl further inside, away from the door. She hoped to keep pushing her limits, and then maybe one day the creature would eat straight from her hand. Another grin etched over her at the idea. 

Whisper worked at her computer all day, keeping herself busy. Sometimes she'd stare out the window wistfully, before snapping back to her work. At lunch time she wondered if it was cold in the shed at night, and if the moth would appreciate bedding. 

She gathered up a quilt her grandmother had made and opened the shed, just to see the form of the moth fidgeting with the empty bowl. The movement of the door startled it, and in one swift movement the bowl clattered and rolled as the moth climbed over junk and sank behind some old storage tubs. 

Whisper stood in the doorway, unsure what to do. After a few seconds the chill in her blood dissipated. “I thought maybe.. you'd like a blanket?” she peeped.

At the sound of her voice, a nervous moth poked its head around the pile of plastic. It watched her warily as she shuffled inside and slowly lowered the quilt to the dusty boards. They stared one another down until Whisper backed out, nearly tripping in the process. 

She was gone again, the human was gone. She brought food, but what does she bring now? She crawled out of hiding into the middle of the room, lifting the ancient blanket close to her face. Soft, soft, soft. This is good! 

The quilt was dragged away into the depths of the shed, patted neatly into a corner, and promptly settled upon. Soft soft soft. She liked soft. She did not like this dirty, damp, old shed. But she needed soft. She liked soft. 

Her wings were tattered, her homing was screwy, and her belly was slowly growing heavy. The kindness of a terrifying species perplexed her, but for now she was alive. Alive was what mattered. Alive was what drove her. Stay alive. 

With food in her stomach and blanket underneath, she stilled and dozed off. 

A few days went by for Whisper. She had gotten very little contact from the creature taking refuge in her shed. She'd set out what she had to eat at least twice a day, and quickly found herself having to buy more fruit. 

Days got hotter as spring slowly evolved into summer. Her guest, she fretted, may actually start to get too hot cooped up in there. She could try and run an extension cord outside and set up a fan, but then she got nervous that the moth would become curious and lose a finger to the blades. Whisper sighed. She'd think about it later.

Today, she decided, she would do more gardening. The front was lined with beautiful blooming blue flowers, but the back was pretty darn empty. Besides, maybe her new friend enjoyed flowers. She had grown wildflower mix, plus some sweet basil, indoors for a few weeks and was ready to set them outside. 

Potting soil, check. Watering can, check. Trowel, missing. Right, she had never actually found what she needed the last time she had gardened. She'd just have to dig through all her garbage again in an attempt to find the miniature shovel.

The shed door squeaked and scraped as it swung carefully open, blowing out heated air into Whisper's ruddy face. She fanned herself. Inside, her lungs struggled against the almost humid air circulating through the cluttered building. Being inside made her even more worried about the critter.

At the sound of footsteps, a certain someone showed her face. Whisper could see the twitching antenna before she saw the black, compounded, watchful eyes. 

“Hello there,” she called quietly. “I'm just looking for something, it's okay. I don't have any food,”

So Whisper began, once more, to search. After a few moments of steady observation, the moth climbed atop of a stack of boxes, clinging to them with her six limbs. From her higher ground she watched her impromptu human-caretaker bending and shoveling and rearranging. She still didn't totally trust this pink creature, but she did not feel threatened anymore. Instead, she was curious. 

What was she looking for? Soon the beet red girl was akimbo and panting. The hairless face peered up at her and the moth flinched.

“Do you know where the trowel is?”

Silence. 

The girl rubbed her chin, grabbed a crumpled piece of paper and a stick of square graphite, and scribbled unsteadily. Then, she lifted up the drawing into the light for the moth to see. She pointed at it.

“This. A trowel. Have you seen it? Can you understand any of this?”

The moth cocked her head and stared. Whisper sighed and dropped her arm. Then in one swift motion the moth returned to her hiding spot and started to rummage ruthlessly. Whisper, having not noticed, continued to look. 

A few minutes passed, and Whisper was about to give up. Then a clink-clank clattered in the middle of the shed, causing her to start and jolt around. The bowl from which Whisper fed her insect friend wobbled, upset by the weight of the metal inside of its maw. The trowel!

She rushed forward and retrieved it from the bowl, looking up with a wide grin spread across her red cheeks. The moth stayed about a foot away and closed in around itself. Scared, but not absconding. 

Whisper looked from the tool to her new friend, and in desire to show her gratitude, she slowly stepped forward. The moth lowered herself down even more, antenna back and eyes ever watching. When Whisper got close, she opened and snapped her vertical jaws in quick succession.

Clickclickclickclickclick.

The human stopped. She was giving the other time to dart away, but she never did. Whisper reached out a hand, prompting the insect to duck her head even further and to lay her antenna nearly flat against her cranium. 

“Thank you,” whispered the grateful human. 

A gentle hand just barely placed itself on top of the moth's head. She affectionately moved her thumb across the dusty fur, before removing the appendage. She didn't want to spook the thing more than it already was. 

The moth looked up in awe. Whisper was already walking away! Encouraged and emboldened by the kind touch, the insect scrambled after her on her six legs. She stood up at the open shed door, watching from the frame as Whisper went back to her gardening, trowel in hand. 

She put her gloves on, dug out a small hole with the little tool, and buried a biodegradable pot in the ground. Whisper loved wildflowers. They were so good for the local bees. She smiled, and continued planting as sweat trickled down her face and arms.

The moth glanced up at the hot sun. She shuttered away back into the darkness of the shed, but then found herself again suffocating in the confined space. She looked longingly again out at the back of the working human. She looked at the trowel in her hand She looked at the flowers. Then, she decided.

Whisper peeked over her shoulder when she thought she saw something out of the corner of her eye. She squeaked, falling on her butt. T-the bug! She was right there! She was all opened up, standing at her full five foot height, and eying Whisper with confusion. 

Why fall over? Wondered the moth. She wasn't that frightening of a creature to have warranted such a response. In any case, Whisper had fallen out of the way. She left a lovely line to the freshly planted wildflowers that looked absolutely delectable. Fruit was good, but flowers were better. 

She got down and crawled forward, maw parting to allow her long, curled tongue to slither out. Her antenna twitched as she poked at a pink clover. Yum yum yum! It wrapped tenderly around the stalk then retreated back into her mouth, taking it all with her. Her jaw snapped and crushed the tasty little morsel. She hadn't had flowers in a while, and was tickled inside and out! 

Whisper watched, dumbfound. Her guest began to munch away at everything she had just planted. Whisper looked horrified and rose her palms up. 

“No! D-don't eat those, it took a month to grow those flowers!”

The moth flinched, stopped eating for but a second, then snagged more clover. She chomped down, then sat on her bottom and stared at Whisper. She didn't understand language, but she could certainly tell the other was displeased with her. It was hard to feel frightened or upset with a belly full of such a wonderful treat. 

With happiness, the moth tilted her head back and screeched, bottom limbs stretching as she expelled her excitement. Then she kept staring. How could someone who gave her something so nice be scary? This was a good creature. A very good creature.

A skinny, alien arm extended outward towards the fur-less animal. It touched Whisper's head then returned to its owner. 

Whisper took the gesture in. A smile slowly etched over her, and then she bore shining teeth. She couldn't remain upset at the half eaten flower bed any longer. “Y-you're... very intelligent,” she stated.

The moth's jagged mouth was still grinding now and then, as if still processing the dessert. Whisper watched her a second more before sighing. She stood up and offered a hand down.

“Do you... want to come inside my house? Where it's nice and cool?”

The other didn't understand, but clasped the offering anyways. They stood, and Whisper lead her through the back door. 

“You'll be more comfortable in here,” Whisper smiled, closing the door behind them. “But if you make a mess... you're going back outside,” she added.

Instantly the insect melted over the couch. Astounding. Ahhh, the air was so comfortable and refreshing, and this bedding was far more superior than the quilt in the hot shed. 

She murmured and wrapped herself up in her long tattered wings. Her body was heavy and tired. She felt so weighed down, perhaps this was a proper place to rest. With her companion around she was safe, even if the area where she lay was open and exposed.

It took some getting used to have such a strange roommate. The moth napped often on the couch, and occasionally the rug, but had taken to nesting in her bathtub. The living room was a perfectly good place to roost, but when it became dark, or when the moth was left alone, she preferred to burrow into her ocean of blankets inside the curvature of porcelain. It made waking up to pee at one in the morning difficult.

Over the next few weeks, Whisper began to compile an essay inside her frenzied brain on exactly JUST how smart the bug was. The essay, however, was argumentative and addressed to herself. She was trying to decide what it was that this thing was, and why it was such.

At first she only seemed to understand pictures, but not words. If presented with the image of an apple and asked with a specific tone of voice, Whisper could urge the moth to fetch an apple from the kitchen. 

The moth learned quickly. After a few times, she understood what 'apple' meant. Whisper ended up doing this with several foods, until the creature could generally pick out ingredients from the kitchen with ease when requested. For some reason though, the moth apparently refused to understand 'cinnamon,' or at least pretended to. 

This was also the method Whisper used to give her a name. Clover. Green, pink, soft and sweet. Clover; the perfect name. She would always respond to the word with a twitch of her antenna and focused eyes on Whisper. It was endearing.

Despite decent memorization skills, writing was impossible. Upon attempting to teach her how to write out a-p-p-l-e, Clover became aggravated and all but ate the paper. But, when watching Whisper poorly draw an apple, she became compliant again and mimicked the shape well enough with her opposable tongue around a pencil. Clover could draw well enough if shown, but it did not come naturally.

So, as far as language went, the moth was certainly clever. Perhaps not on par with humanity, but self aware and able to understand. She was simply more visual than a human. Whisper couldn't help but wonder if writing would be simpler to teach if the moth were young.

Clover had a sense of time. She has issues with individual numbers when written, however she started to understand the 'number' of a time with tick marks and fingers. Like most animals, including humans, she was able to distinguish numbers when she saw them. Two fingers was two fingers. Two fingers means it is a specific part of the evening or morning. Though, unlike Whisper, she did not care for specific time and preferred her internal clock. Morning, evening, dusk, night. That's all there was and should be. She didn't like reading Whisper's fingers.

And, perhaps Whisper's favorite characteristic of the insect's intelligence, was her emotional intelligence. Despite not being of the same species, Clover caught on to Whisper's wide range of expressions within days of moving in. She easily understood Whisper's tone. Most interestingly of all, the moth had once tried to comfort her.

It had been about a week and a half prior to the current essay Whisper was formatting inwardly. She had gotten a call from her father, who informed her that Whisper's grandmother had passed. Though they'd never been terribly close, her grandmother was a sweet woman who babysat her often as a child. She had made her that quilt. There were fond memories. 

So Whisper had been sad. Clover had sensed this in her voice and downcast expression. When Whisper let herself gently cry the moth had chittered next to her, stared as she was prone to do, and bundled her up into her long, soft wings. She had attempted to socially groom Whisper's hair to bring the girl some comfort, and Whisper had appreciated it greatly. Then, the next morning, Whisper woke to Clover holding the half-empty bread bag at her bedside, wanting to feed her sad friend.

Modernly, Whisper was reading in her chair. Or she was at least trying to read, but the moth was apparently in a very pleasant mood and causing quite the distraction. At least the distraction made for great daydreaming time, and aided her internal essay. 

The critter was on all sixes on top of Whisper's bed. She occasionally bobbed her head like an excitable lovebird and chirped at her. Her wings shook, as if preparing for flight on a chilly winter morning. Then, without warning, she flipped over on her back and kicked all the covers off the bed. Clover was bored.

Whisper sighed, slumping her cheek against her palm. She rose a brow.

“Think you're done?”

Clover tilted her head back and looked at the human upside down. She clacked her jaws then turned to her belly and crawled off the bed. Soon she made it over and plopped her head into Whisper's lap, big compound eyes shining up into Whisper's neutral ones. Sometimes Whisper wondered what went on in the bug's brain.

Their eyes remained locked until Whisper smiled softly. She sat her book down and laid a hand on the mop of curly fur, and fingered through the wavy strands. 

The moth relaxed, shoulders going slack. If she could shut her eyes, she would have. Yes, attention! Attention! She just wanted attention. It seemed like she always wanted attention. Lately she found herself moody and more affectionate. She just wanted to curl up and be petted, or to be laid back and hand fed sweet tasting flowers, preferably the ones of her namesake.

She cooed and rested her cheek against Whisper's lap drowsily, energy expended. She had also been napping more frequently than usual. It was getting close to that time. Whisper didn't seem to notice the rounder lower belly or the way her abdomen was starting to swell. She couldn't sense changes in pheromones, the poor animal did not bare sensitive antennas. 

Clover could imagine cuddling up to her larva and feeding them all manor of good food. Certainly here there was no shortage of it. Fruits, flowers, maybe she'd even go out and collect leaves. She clacked happily and nuzzled against Whisper's soft, warm thigh. 

She had also grown rather attached to Whisper. Her own kind could be dimwitted and selfish. They would leave you. But Whisper was smart and strong and kind. Whisper would protect her and the children. She hoped she never had to leave the safety of the confined, air conditioned spaces that smelled of her human's skin and dander. 

In her lap was creation; the accumulation of generations. Evolution had somehow birthed this monster, who was sweetly snuggling up to her for a kind hand in her hair. The soft strands that fluffed up dust as she pet them comforted her. Her feral cat certainly did love touch. Whisper idly examined the head in her lap. She glanced over the hexagons of the eye, the slope of the jaw, and finally stopped over the broken antenna. 

It was obvious it would never grow back, or else it would have by now. Whisper sometimes stared at it and felt her heart break, imagining how the creature could have possibly lost it. How dampened were Clover's senses? Her hand traveled up and just barely graced against one of the shortened prongs.

Clover jerked in surprise, her head coming back up off the thigh. Her jaw clicked twice and she studied Whisper, who was looking concerned.

“Does that hurt?”

She could sense that Whisper may have been worried that she'd been pained. Her head went back down to the inviting lap, showing she was perfectly fine. She'd just been surprised at the sudden touch was all. 

Her antenna were very sensitive instruments. They collected information about smells and sounds, and were immensely delicate. Perhaps their sensitivity to touch was comparable to a soft caress against one's fingertips, or to the fleshy skin of the lips. To that knowledge, Clover's antenna tingled.

Having returned to her position, Whisper assumed Clover was giving her the okay. She relaxed again, reaching out. The back of her fingers brushed against the prongs of the broken antenna, and Clover's wings shuttered. Whisper felt her heart thump too hard.

Clover rolled her head, placing her whole face against the lap so that both of her antenna were exposed. She was opening them up to touch, giving permission, Whisper thought. She didn't know why it made her blush, but it did.

She held her hand palm up, and brushed it with the utmost care through the underside of the longer antenna. She went from base to tip, prongs flicking against fingers like a stick to a fence, and this time Clover's whole body shook. Whisper swallowed thickly and returned to petting Clover's head instead. The shaking stopped, and Whisper noticed that Clover released the tension she'd apparently been holding. 

Feeling somewhat uneasy, Whisper let a hot breath slip from between her thinly lined lips. “It's late, we should rest,” and knowing that Clover likely understood very little besides 'rest,' added “Let's go to sleep,”

Sleep, she understood sleep. Clover's face lifted and she leaned away, thinking. Then, after a twitch of the antenna, she stood and patted Whisper on the head twice and left the bedroom. Sleep meant bathtub time.

With the moth gone relief washed over Whisper. Whatever had been ailing her recently felt much like a coiled spring in her gut, and it only released when she found herself alone. After a few weeks watching, talking to, and caring for Clover, the coil had begun to form. Specifically, it seemed to have started the day Whisper wandered into the kitchen to find that Clover had attempted to make her breakfast. Breakfast, naturally, consisted of buttered bread, two gooey eggs in a cold skillet, and a bowl of soggy cereal. 

Whisper peeked out from behind the curtains. No moon or stars. The woods were pitch black, and she couldn't see her shed at all. In the far distance, she saw the faint flicker of light against the sky. The summer storms had started. She hoped her outdoor plants could hold their own, and hoped with all her heart that Clover could too. It would get loud.

With that final thought, Whisper turned out the light and got cozy under the covers. Sleep washed over her like a crescendo of crickets and frogs. In her deep sleep she was not awoken by the cackling thunder that shook her walls. She was not awoken by the abduction-esque flicker of bright light through her curtains, and he was not awoken by her bedroom light being abruptly switched on at three in the morning. She was, however, startled quite awake when Clover screeched into her ears and shook her violently.

“Clover, Clover! Whhh- it's oookay!” she slurred, brain still fogged over despite the adrenaline quickening her pulse. 

She had just barely sat up in bed before Clover had attached herself to her body. Colors swirled in her vision and she struggled to slow her heart, but eventually her eyes focused again and calm breathing settled her heart. 

The human rubbed Clover's shaking back as the poor thing tittered. Those were the most pitiful sounds she'd heard in her god damn life.

“Shhhh, it's just thunder and rain, you know what thunder and rain is,”

Clover squeaked and pressed her face tight against Whisper's neck.

“Clover,” Whisper said. “Clover, dear, you're going to choke me to death. Death, Clover, I said DEATH,”

She let up, but only enough to release her upper set of arms from around Whisper's constricted body. Now they were face to face, and Clover was staring at Whisper for guidance. 

Whisper wanted nothing more than to wrap her wings around the scared moth, just as she had done when Whisper was sad. She simply had no wings to wrap. For a long moment they shared eye contact, before Whisper patted the bed. 

“Come up here,” she said calmly through drowsiness. 

Clover obeyed and skittered up, but she remained pressed hard against Whisper's side. With some fussing, Whisper got Clover under the blankets and bundled the softest one around her shivering body. Whisper's comforting presence and the confined weight of the blanket alleviated some skittishness, but Clover was still very much on edge. 

Whisper petted her and watched her body language as they sat silently in bed, listening to the rumble outside that knocked a stray branch against the roof.

The moth wished she could communicate better. If only humans could detect the subtle changes in air borne pheromones or the variance in jaw clicking, then Whisper would understand her gratefulness.

She'd gone to nest easily, then at some point a massive beast battered the house and lit the small bathroom window. Clover has held out as long as she could, but her instinct to flee overcame in the end. That's how she ended up in Whisper's surprised arms. That's why she was swaddled so carefully.

“We should go back to sleep,” mumbled Whisper, eyes barely open.

Clover scooted closer, her pathetic keening over. She trusted that she would live, so long as Whisper was not afraid. But she refused to leave. 

Whisper gave a half yawn and wrapped her arm around Clover, holding her tight as she said “Alright, you can sleep with me tonight, just don't wake me up again. I mean it. Please,”

So she turned out the light and climbed back into bed, forcing Clover to lay down and be still. Clover pressed taut against Whisper's back, all six of her limbs holding on for dear life. 

Whisper grumbled. Her body was flush against the feeling of being spooned. She figured Clover would stay close, but she was neither prepared for her internal reaction, nor the air being squeezed out of her. She squirmed and plucked at the two-fingered hands. Clover got the message and loosened up.

It was hard to fall asleep now. She was hyper aware of every slight move Clover made. Clover, too, appeared to have difficulty resting with the ear shattering rain flooding against roof tiles. After an hour, Whisper noted the slackness of Clover's body against her own. She was asleep. Whisper smiled grimly. Clover found it easier to sleep through the terrifying sound than Whisper did with Clover touching her. That coil curled around her belly again, like butterflies flapping their wings in preparation to escape her throat. 

Her back started to ache from laying so stiff. With much anxiety, Whisper slowly turned to her back, adjusting bug arms as she went. Clover stirred, and rested her forehead against Whisper's cheek. For a moment Whisper worried that she'd woken her, but all she did as she shifted was slip a hand under Whisper’s gown and over her stomach.

Shitshitshit! Whisper stared at the ceiling. Her face wasn't the only place radiating warmth. However Clover was still fast asleep, and Whisper was too stunned to dare remove the hand from her bare skin. It took her another hour and a half before she calmed herself enough to fall asleep, and by then the raging storm had slowed to a gentle downpour. 

Whisper woke first. She'd slept an hour more than usual, a testament to her late slumber. When her eyes opened they met the lifeless ones of a still dreaming Clover. Seemed they were facing each other. The important thing to note was how Clover's jaw was slack and drool was pooling on the pillow. Whisper carefully sat up and away from the cold damp stain before her ear got wet.

When Whisper went to her computer to work after breakfast Clover was still fast asleep. It was late in the evening before she barely stirred from her position in bed.

“Good morning sleepy head,” Whisper smirked. “you slept straight on til five!” she held up five fingers.

Clover chittered at the edge of the bed. She counted the fingers and rubbed her belly thoughtfully, before bolting up and skittering off to the kitchen for some dinner. Wow, she really passed the fuck out. Whisper had just been so warm! Her presence had worked magic and placed her into a deep, deep sleep. She felt so refreshed! So full of energy! So hungry!

Whisper stood against the mouth of the hall and watched a ravenous Clover rummage around for fruit. She ended up munching on a bag of grapes and nearly devoured half a watermelon. Whisper actually had to scold her, as Clover had bit straight into the rind instead of having the human slice the melon open. There was a bit of clean up.

The moth ended up sitting hunched on the couch, belly bloated from eating too much too fast. Whisper rubbed slow circles over her back while idly watching the television. Nothing was really on, so she casually listened to the gentle voice of a narrator walking her through a cheetah stalking its prey. 

“Serves you right Clover,” Whisper tisked. “That rind didn't go down easy did it! I bet none of the other mysterious giant insects are like this,”

Clover gurgled a pathetic response. She leaned against Whisper affectionately, making Whisper blush. The human continued to watch T.V. until the end of the documentary, and by then Clover felt better.

The moth wandered over to the window by the T.V. and poked her head around the curtains. She was satisfied to watch butterflies floating by and bees stopping to sample Whisper's handiwork. But then on the bird feeder a disturbance caught her energetic attention. A squirrel! It was attempting to swipe bird feed for itself! 

Clover tapped the glass, but the feeder hung far enough away from the house to not bother the rodent. The moth looked back at Whisper, who was flipping through stations randomly. Then she once more turned back to the squirrel. Clover bristled. In a flash she was at the front door, throwing it wide open and making a fuss at the fluffy thief. 

It froze, swinging gently on the feeder. Clover stomped forward, wings held high and battering together. The great four eyes across the plains appeared to blink and flash at the innocent animal, effectively frightening the shit out of it. It fled to a tree with a warning cry.

Success! Perhaps she made for a better guard dog than feral cat. Clover stood under the humid gray sky, hands on her hips. 

Whisper giggled from the concrete porch, and was returned with a twitch of the antenna and a gleeful click of the jaw. Clover pointed at the feeder and looked between them excitedly. 

Whisper giggled again. “Yes yes, I saw, you spooked the bejeebers outta that poor squirrel,”

Clover then simply stood there staring at the bird feeder. She then tip-toed closer to the tree in the middle of the yard, examining the bark and looking up high into the oak branches. Her antenna perked up, dropped, then perked up, as if combing for information in the air.

Soon Whisper came out to her. She stood casually under the tree, watching her friend have her fun. Clover scrambled up onto a branch with ease and began collecting sun absorbed oak leaves, rodent forgotten.

“Whatcha' doin'?” asked Whisper, amused.

Clover didn't understand, but responded with little clicks anyway. Then she went still, antenna stiff. Whisper called to her and got no reply. She furrowed her brows. Suddenly Clover screeched, dropped her sizable collection of leaves, and clambered as fast as she could down the trunk. When a warm raindrop plopped against Whisper's cheek she understood why. It was beginning to rain.

“Guess we'd better-”

SCREEECH! 

Clover grabbed Whisper's wrist and started to tug her away, but just as they'd barely stumbled from out under the tree a crack of thunder roared through the sky. The moth let go, nearly leaping a foot in the air with fright, then fell painfully onto her bottom. She whimpered.

“Come on come on,” fretted Whisper, pulling the poor thing up. “quickly, before we get electrocuted!”

Then the rain came down, down, down, with absolutely no regard for dry humans or moth dust. Summer storms sucked! Whisper thought the rain wouldn't be here for at least another two hours, but the weather wasn't always so easily predicted.

Whisper pretty much had to shove Clover on to get any ground covered, despite the fact they were just a few dozen feet from the door. The door was shut and locked, downpour content to rage on without them.

When Whisper turned with a sigh to address Clover, she found herself to be alone. Clover wasn't in the living room. The wet trail of rainwater gave her a pretty good idea of where to find her, though. 

She followed the trail down the hall, which turned off into the bathroom. In the middle of the bathtub was a shaking lump of blankets. Whisper flicked the light on and sat on her knees in front of the tub. 

“Clover! It's alright! No need to hide,”

Clover poked her head out at the voice, antenna laid back. She looked soaked; the rain had significantly dampened her fur. She felt gross and heavy. The quilt around her slacked as she reached out and hugged Whisper around the shoulders with her upper set of arms.

Whisper rubbed her back, but was gravely upset to find bits of fur rubbed off against her hand. No wonder why Clover was so terrified of storms! She sincerely hoped that grew back.

Thunder rumbled the house and the lights flickered then promptly went out. Clover clacked in response and stared at Whisper with uncertainty until Whisper climbed into the tub.

She found herself holding Clover gently while trying not to make any more bald spots. Despite the circumstances, Whisper was learning to accept the steady beat of her heart every time she had Clover against her body. 

Clover had her head against the crook of the human's neck. She was sitting sideways between Whisper's legs, blanket against her back. She was in a calm, warm nook. It soothed her greatly. Then she jerked with surprise and shuttered; the familiar softness of Whisper's fingers brushed against her intact antenna. 

Whisper was slow and careful. She didn't want to scare or upset Clover any more than the storm had. At least petting the antennas would not make fur rub off- that was the excuse she gave herself when she did it. The vibration against her skin nearly stopped her breathing. The reaction her body gave her made Whisper feel nothing short of guilt.

When Whisper stopped, eyes falling, Clover's head nuzzled into her still lingering palm. She wanted her to continue. Whisper swallowed, letting her pointer go along a prong.

This time Clover's hold tightened around her, her two-fingered hands clenching and unclenching. Thunder shook the house, and Clover didn't even notice. She simply couldn't help it. She was due any day now, and her poor swollen abdomen was aching to lay soon. The stimulation she'd been receiving as of late was begging her to do something. It was obvious to her that Whisper reciprocated, even if Whisper couldn't tell there was anything to reciprocate to. Should she act?

Whisper's hand stroked down the antenna, then down the broken one, and she whole hardheartedly wanted to kiss Clover on the side of her head. She took in a strained breath, then released it like a sigh. The thick atmosphere simultaneously put her systems on edge and made her want to fall into a nap with Clover in her arms.

“There, there,” she whispered. “are you feeling any better?”

Clover squeaked. It made Whisper grin and giggle. The grin quickly flipped to surprise as Clover's second set of hands shifted down to her inner thighs. Whisper's instinct was to jump away at such a bold touch, but the back of the bath held her firmly in place. Her hands went down and grabbed Clover's wrists.

“C-Clover!” she stuttered, eyes wide. “We don't... you don't touch down there,” Whisper informed, assuming Clover was none the wiser to human anatomy. The moth obviously didn't mean to act suggestively; she just didn't realize how close she was to... Whisper's face was beet red.

Of course, Clover's senses were far better than Whisper's. She knew what she was doing. She pulled her head away to look Whisper in the eyes, jaw making small chewing movements like in thought. Whisper eventually let go of her wrists, so Clover allowed them to remain planted on the thighs. She didn't risk moving them any further, even though she could pick up that Whisper was beyond flustered and accepting.

Clover kept her antenna low, and produced a quiet, comforting purr from her throat. It wasn't exactly like a cat, but it was no doubt a purr. She parted her jagged jaw and lolled her insect tongue, which swiped across Whisper's neck.

This time Whisper shuttered. She grimaced, legs subconsciously parting further, her hands to Clover's slim hips. She already felt the throb between her legs, and felt terribly exposed with Clover there between them. She still had guilt there, but there was also a part in her mind that was absolutely thrilled at the premise of being with anything non-human.

Clover leaned in again and licked her neck a second time, nice and slow. In response Whisper tilted her head, hands gripping firmly around Clover's hips. Whisper could feel the sharp edges of Clover's 'teeth,' wrapping around her delicate flesh. She gasped when pressure was applied.

Now that Whisper was giving off more submissive vibes, Clover let her hands finally move again. The second set roamed down around the soft, fatty inner thighs, following the warmth to its center. Whisper gasped again, her grip on Clover's hips becoming almost painful.

She purred more, the rumble moving through her teeth against Whisper's neck. Relax. The hands rubbed at her crotch, then a finger poked at it. The moth was thoroughly annoyed that humans wore an outer skin. She took her teeth away and chittered, pulling at the edge of Whisper's shorts.

Eyes half-lidded and lips parted, Whisper eventually helped to remove her shorts. It took a bit of re-adjusting in the blanket nest of the bath. She was fully giving into this. She was actually going to let Clover do- whatever it was Clover was going to do. How DID a giant insect have sex? She began to worry that they weren't compatible.

Clover was satisfied with pressing her palm underneath the fabric of Whisper's panties. They weren't much of a hindrance, so she didn't bother with attempting to yank them off. 

The two sat on their knees, Whisper leaning on Clover for support while Clover palmed at her wet folds. She pressed a finger to the entrance, not even trying to stretch her or wait. It didn't come naturally to her kind to do 'preparations,' it generally didn't hurt and went quickly. 

Whisper held on, head to her shoulder, while Clover probed her. Those teeth went to Whisper's shoulder in turn, nuzzling her shirt away, and- and ow! Whisper lifted her head and hissed. She felt liquid run down the curve and stain her shirt's collar. 

“What the fuck Clover?” she chided.

Clover smacked her jaw and licked away at her stained mouth. She didn't seem bothered at all that she'd just imprinted her teeth straight into Whisper's flesh. Her tongue lapped over the wound, dragging blood into her mouth like a cat to the water bowl. She suddenly curved her finger and Whisper's breathing hitched in surprise; the jolt of pleasure shot through her gut while her shoulder ached and oozed.

Then the hand was taken away. Clover roughly twisted Whisper, turning her around and pressing her to her hands and knees.

“I-” Whisper laughed dryly “-didn't know y-you could be so.. imposing,”

Clover pressed her chest to Whisper's back, nuzzling up against her affectionately. She cooed, her tail-like abdomen twitching. With the help of the tub and Whisper's back, Clover all but held over her human caretaker, abdomen between her bottom set of arms. The swollen furry lump brushed against Whisper's lower back and rear.

Whisper looked upside down between her arms, brows knitted. “So how are you going to... o-oh!”

A semi-prehensile ovipositor emerged from the tip of the abdomen.

“That's how!” Whisper buried her face in the quilt below her. Grandmother forgive her for fucking on top of that lovingly handcrafted blanket.

The ovipositor struggled for a bit, poking at the damp panties before Whisper held them out of the way. She shut her eyes and took a breath. It pressed snug to her entrance and started to sink inside. Whisper let the breath slowly escape her lips as it filled her pussy. She ached a bit, as despite not being extremely thick, it had to have been at least nine inches long. Only about seven fit.

Clover seemed pleased. Her claws gripped Whisper tightly, holding her firmly in place as she started mating. She moved slightly, abdomen lifting a little then pressing back in. Clover kept an easy pace. Not too slow, not too fast. 

Whisper hadn't had sex in years, so her poor needy pussy produced more than enough lubricant for the deed. It clenched and unclenched around Clover's ovipositor as she fucked her, drawing it in deeper whenever it plunged in. Clover made a low sound Whisper hadn't heard before, prompting a smirk from the human below her.

“Is that good?” panted Whisper.

Clover clicked her jaws, thrusting in particularly hard and prompting a quiet groan from Whisper. After a few more lusty thrusts Whisper wiggled and urged Clover to move. Clover, annoyed and confused, complied with some loud complaining. She didn't want to stop! Whisper was just being mean.

Whisper had Clover lay back, head and upper body cradled by the curve of the bath. She straddled her and then without any warning Clover pressed inside again, just as Whisper barely got situated. Whisper sighed, sitting down on it as far as she could. It was strange trying to ride an ovipositor that extended from the abdomen, but it felt great. The position hit a wonderful angle. Clover almost ceased moving all together while Whisper pleased her.

“Ahhh,” Whisper keened. She leaned, one hand prompted against the bath rim and the other reaching out to stroke an antenna. 

Clover's whole body shook, and she started thrusting up again. She was erratic, barely able to take the stimulation of both forms of pleasure. Her first and second set of arms wrapped tightly around Whisper, dragging her down against Clover's chest while she did the rest of the work. It didn't take more than a few seconds more before her rough, deep thrusting halted inside of the human, and Clover's mouth gripped around Whisper's neck.

Whisper held deathly still, almost frightened that Clover would accidentally kill her. She felt the teeth press harder and harder against her neck, and she shut her eyes. A bit of blood dribbled, running down her collarbone, but it wasn't significant enough to kill her. 

Clover jerked. Another inch slipped in; eight wonderful, cervix penetrating, pulsating inches. Whisper was sore. What sounded almost like a relieved sigh escaped Clover's clamped jaws as she began to finally deposit her eggs.

Whisper's brows lifted and she struggled in the grasp, confused at the sensation of a hard lump passing through her canal. Clover, however, held on tight. Her jaws put down more pressure, keeping Whisper in place. Another puncture made Whisper hiss in pain. A second sliver-thin stream of blood pooled downward, joining the steadily drying blood on her collar.

“What are you doing, Clover?” whispered the human. “A-ah!”

Multiple eggs passed into her warm womb. Through the ache her legs shook, clit throbbing with desperate need for stimulation. She could feel the weight as it rounded her lower stomach with each intruding deposit.

With some careful, leisurely re-adjusting, Whisper slipped a hand between their compressed bodies without getting a fuss from her partner. She rubbed herself slowly, wrist rather tight on space to move.

Clover jerked again, and Whisper gasped, gritting her teeth. The last inch of the ovipositor slipped in. Inside, the appendage pumped three more fist-sized eggs through her pussy, each one rubbing along the tight inner walls. They pressed against the propped open entrance to her cramped womb, causing a small blockage.

The teeth around her neck let up, and Clover lapped the blood into her drooling maw. She laid her head backward into the curve, jostling her abdomen just-so in an attempt to cram the blockage in where it needed to be.

Whisper laid her head against the other's shoulder, tired body twitching as she let herself come. Her walls tightened and un-tightned as white light flashed over her vision. “Ahhh f-fuck! Clover,” she bit her lip.

The last deposit squeezed into her waiting uterus. As soon as Clover was done, she pulled out. 

The removal hurt, leaving Whisper with a dull throbbing ache. The two laid lax in the tub, and after a moment of rest Clover wrapped her wings protectively around Whisper. Whisper smiled, nuzzling against the side of Clover's head, and gave it a kiss.

“You made me bleed you dusty asshole,”

Clover didn't even have the energy to click her jaws in reply.

Outside the storm had since softened, rain quietly beating down against the roof tiles. In the distance a muffled grumble thrummed the belly of the storm. It moved on in search of new light to eat.

EPILOGUE 

Much to Whisper's dismay, it turned out that the larva would either die inside of her or attempt to rip their way out of her womb if she went with live birth. Instead, after a few days of internal incubation, Clover had aided Whisper in laying the unhatched clutch. They rested inside the bathtub, all cozied up and warm inside the blankets. Today they were hatching.

The two sat at either end of the tub as the blankets stirred. Clover wiggled and cooed and waited intently. 

Whisper lifted up the edge of the blanket and peeked inside with a curious gaze. One of the eggs stirred, and Clover wiggled again.

“Look,” Whisper removed the blanket on top of the clutch. “It's finally happening!”

The egg broke, a piece of the brown outer shell opening up. Out wiggled a green-ish, fuzzy caterpillar half the length of Whisper's forearm. A few more eggs began to jostle. Soon the clutch was covered in curious, hungry larva, all wriggling about looking for something good to eat.

Clover clicked down at them affectionately and leaned over the edge of the tub. She dropped bright blue flowers and sweet smelling clover down onto the babies. They happily munched away at their first meal. 

“Never thought I'd be mothering giant worms with.. well, you,” Whisper smirked, cheek against her fist and elbow on the side of the bath.

Clover was so pleased! This was her first clutch in a long while. With Whisper beside her, they were all sure to grow to maturity and move off into the world. She didn't expect to lose a single larva this time. Suddenly something caught her compound eye. There was a single unhatched egg among the clambering children. 

She reached down and picked the egg up. Maybe, she admitted with some sadness, she would lose a larva after all. Had this one been blank, or had the baby died inside? She stared at it longingly for some time. After a while something inside moved. It cracked and the head of a larva poked out shyly.

Clover clicked, body full of love and excitement. She picked the baby up from out the egg and looked it over. It seemed sluggish and smaller than the rest, but it was alive. She held it out to Whisper to see.

Whisper took the larva in her arms and it wriggled slowly, if not restlessly, on her arm. The baby smelled food and was starving! Whisper giggled and lifted up a few clovers that had been left. The caterpillar took hold of the blossoms with its mouth and nibbled away.

Whisper, too, couldn't help but feel pleased.

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=2mp0sb4)


End file.
